


Dog With a Bone

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Porn, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Infidelity, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 00:08:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9408707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Blue silk robe, white gown, red hair in a long trailing plait, a last lingering string back to the north.“Bitch comes with her own leash.” She loves it when he calls her a bitch. A bitch is just a dog, and a dog is still a wolf at heart.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the asoiaf kink meme prompt: "Sandor/Sansa, Sansa is the perfect little Lady to everyone by day but for him she's the filthiest of whores."
> 
> This seemingly takes place in an AU where 1. Sandor doesn't desert after the Blackwater, 2. the Purple Wedding doesn't happen and so Sansa stays in King's Landing & married to Tyrion a lot longer.

Blue silk robe, white gown, red hair in a long trailing plait, a last lingering string back to the north. No underthings, of course. Sandor grabs that plait just before he pushes her up against the wall, rubbing his cock against the cleft of her pretty little arse. Her hands brace against the stone instinctively.

“You been missing me, Lady Stark?”

Her face is hidden, of course, but he thinks she's smiling. “Sansa, please,” she says. He hisses a curse and ruts against her harder, makes her moan. She doesn't play coy the way she once did, doesn't blush and flutter about her maidenhead and swear it'll never happen again. “And yes, I did.”

“I bet you did,” he says, tearing at his laces, not bothering to pull his heavy leather trousers down – he's learned she doesn't mind if it's uncomfortable. “You been missing a cock in that precious cunt of yours?”

She giggles and nods, and he starts pushing up her skirts. It's embarrassing, almost, how she responds to him spitting bile at her, but it makes things easier. “Slut,” he hisses as he shoves two fingers straight into her, listening to her gasp. She's already soaking wet for him. “You like this, don't you, getting fucked like a two-copper whore right here in the corridor, where anyone could see you.”

No-one will though, no-one comes this way, they always leave this place covered with a thin sheen of dust. Lady Stark probably wants to be found though, wants everyone to know how she's cuckolding the husband the Lannisters forced on her. Sandor's sure the Imp knows, but it's one thing for him to know and another for him to know that everyone else knows.

“Yes, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, oh!” She gives the most shameless moan when he thrusts deep in her, one he's sure she learned eavesdropping on her husband's whores. He doesn't know if Lord Tyrion has fucked her yet, but he knows there isn't a baby, much to Tywin's fury. _Maybe she's barren_ , he thinks, and laughs. Well that'd be some measure of revenge for the poor girl.

She's still so fucking skinny and his cock is as huge as the rest of him, every time he puts it in her, he thinks he's about to tear her in half (and he hates thinking that, because it makes him think of his brother, and poor fucking Elia Martell). Sometimes he wants to slow down, be gentle with her, but he knows she'd never let him. He squeezes her arse so tight that perfect porcelain skin will bruise, and shoves himself balls-deep in her, listening to her mewl like she's in pain. “Fuck, just like that,” she gasps.

“Cursing now too?” he asks as he sets a punishing rhythm.

She growls like the wolf she keeps hidden under silk and smiles all day. “ _Fuck me harder_.”

He does his best. She's moaning and whimpering like whore, tits bouncing up against the stone wall, rocking back shamelessly onto his cock. _I've ruined her_ , Sandor almost thinks, but he knows it wasn't him who did that.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck, just like that, just like that – ah!” he slaps her arse, leaving a faint red mark. He knows she likes it when he does that properly, takes her over his knee and leaves her arse so red she won't sit right for days. He wonders if she likes to taunt her husband with it, make it so very obvious she's giving her cunny to someone if not him. He wonders if it reminds her of her dear daddy, spanking her for being a brat or fighting with that sister of hers, the one who vanished off the face of the fucking planet, but loving her and kissing her forehead and sending her off to the Maester's afterwards. He doesn't think he should ask.

He grabs that plait again, winding it around his hand. “Bitch comes with her own leash,” he mutters, and she gives the happiest sigh. She loves it when he calls her a bitch. A bitch is just a dog, and a dog is still a wolf at heart.

Her back arches and she cries out as he plows her mercilessly. She's about to come, and so is he. “Fuck,” he grunts before he pulls out, grabbing her my the hips to spin her around. He doesn't want to leave a bastard in her, even if he thinks she might like that – putting a black-haired babe in Lord Tywins arms and saying _there's your Lannister Warden of the North_ – but while the Lannisters aren't likely to execute their claim to Winterfell, he is not so indispensable. “Get on your knees,” he grunts at her and she does it. It's hardly a foolproof strategy for avoiding planting his seed, but it's about the best he's got right now.

He wraps a hand around his cock and starts stroking it, right in front of her flushed face, and she meets his eye, staring up into his ugly burnt face, and echoes him, reaching down to rub her little cunny. He's seen her do that before, touch herself, sometimes when she doesn't even know he's watching. He doesn't like to spy, but sometimes she does it in her window, where anyone could see her. He thinks she wants everyone to know. She wants to shame the Lannisters, tell them that if they are going to force their family name upon her there's no way they can stop her from disgracing it (as if the Lannisters need help with that). After all, she has no father or mother or brothers left to make a fuss about her honour. Unless she thinks they're watching her from the heavens, but he doesn't think she believes in that sort of thing anymore.

(Though the one time she did cry it was in the sept; it was her idea, wanting to defile the place they'd made her one of them, insult the gods who'd let them do it, but halfway through she'd pulled away and started rambling and sobbing so hard he couldn't make out a word she said – except the one: _Mother_.)

If she was braver, she'd probably forget all about him and go out into the streets to fuck random men, butchers and bakers and sell-swords. But she's not that brave. The girl's not even twenty yet.

She thinks she can beat them. She thinks she can have this tiny little revenge on the Lannisters, even if they'll never know about it. She thinks she can protect herself by ruining herself before they can do it for her. She thinks if Joffrey gets bored of the Tyrell girl and wants to start playing with his old toy again, at least she'll have stopped him being the first one to do it, she'll have debased herself as much as he could ever debase her and she'll have fucking enjoyed it.

If Sandor was a better man, he wouldn't let her. If he was the knight she used to dream of – if such a man existed – he'd steal her away from this place and take her back home, back to the miserable fucking North where she'd probably freeze or starve or get eaten by the Others anyway, because that would be her luck, where the family she yearns for isn't. He can't be the man of her dreams, and she doesn't dream those things anymore.

He's not above taking advantage of the poor girl trying to obliterate all her hope and honour and virtue and other things she was told a good lady should have but never did her any fucking good on her cock. He comes in rough, ready stripes across her cheeks, and she throws her head back against the wall and peaks with a soft little whimper, for a moment that vulnerable, innocent girl again.

The moment passes.

When it does he hands her his white kingsguard cloak to wipe herself off with, and she grins as she does it, perhaps thinking of Jaime Lannister putting a sword through her father's leg, and how that caused her all this grief (alongside the thousands of other things that caused her all this grief).

Before he goes, he slaps her – gently – across the jaw and says: “Slut.” She smiles like it's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to her.


End file.
